


The Underwhelming Yet Slightly Stimulating Tickler

by inkiestdawn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Mentions of Masturbation, Sex Toys, explicit use of humour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-22 09:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8280587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkiestdawn/pseuds/inkiestdawn





	1. Chapter 1

Living in the bunker is not quite turning out as you had imagined. High definition images of Sam and Dean walking through the halls bare-chested, daydreams of playful banter in the kitchen as you cooked together, and hopes of movie marathons snuggled up on the couch were all ridiculous fluff cooked up by your lust addled brain that came nowhere near reality.

Life in the bunker has two speeds. The first is frustratingly slow. Days of near boredom, scanning through news feeds for a possible lead on a hunt, or mind numbing hours of research that culminate more often into a sore ass, cramped back muscles, and a headache than any relevant information; the monotony broken only by meals and the rare, confusing appearance of Castiel who stares at you like you’ve handed him a parking ticket.

The second is all-hell-has-broken-loose-and-we-need-to-hustle; running out of ammo and gas; bruises, cuts, minor fractures and concussions; blood and stale sweat; yelling, swearing; and monsters getting ganked (about an 89% success rate so far).

Sam generally does the groceries, stocking the fridge with veg and fruits, lean meats, and low fat dairy that does horrible, putrid things to his digestive system; a realization that blasted you out of any and all lascivious day dreams and put you off toast for about a week.

Dean cleans, puttering around and tut-tutting over crumbs, stains, and abandoned cups. When he’s not spick and spanning the place to a shine, he does run out for beer. And despite the fact that he can cook, alcohol has been the culmination of his contribution to communal meals.

When you get over the fact that you don’t regularly get into pillow fights with the boys and are never playfully chased down the halls- all giggles and stockinged feet- you can admit that the Winchesters are the best roommates you’ve ever had. You’ve settled into a comfortable routine- albeit nudity and bum touching free-that has brought you closer to Sam and Dean than you had expected. Not penis in vagina close, but still good. They’re clean and kind and respect your space. A little too much.

So, when you open your bedroom door to find Dean standing there with an open laptop, eyes watery with tears and lips trembling, you find yourself at a loss. When he doubles over, you lurch forward, placing a hand on his back. His shoulders are heaving.

“Dean?” You ask tentatively.

He gasps.

Countless thoughts and theories run through your mind all at once. Dean has experienced and seen so much that you can’t possibly imagine what would have him in such a state. If the man is devastated enough to come to you at a time like this, it must be bad. Beyond bad. The thought occurs that he might be sick or wounded but there are no obvious signs of trauma and you can’t for the life of you think of why he would have come to you holding a laptop. Was he self-diagnosing on some medical websites?

Then in a sudden cold wash of horror, you realize what has happened.

**

Hunting with you was a rip. When you agreed to relocate to the bunker for a few months after being evicted from your apartment, (the landlord wasn’t buying that you were attacked by a werewolf and thaaaaat was on Dean who didn’t notice that he was being tailed), Dean was thrilled. With Sam’s support, they offered you a place to stay.

Dean wasn’t ready to admit that he was wrong but so far, it was all status quo in the bunker and that left him more than a little underwhelmed. He was frustrated. It wasn’t that he didn’t like having you there. Using the excuse of a run to the store for food (and coming back with a case of beer) he took the time to mull it over. He did admit that he had some high expectations. For one, he never imagined you in flannel pyjamas. They had their appeal and yeah, they looked comfortable and warm -the bunker was, admittedly, a bit damp and drafty- but his mind had conjured up more skin, less Snoopy. No Snoopy, really. Sans Snoopy.

He also expected a lot more fun. On hunts, you joked with them, ribbed Sam until he was laughing so hard he complained for days that his sides hurt, suggested detours to check out “this thing I read about” or something “I saw on a show”, and you were always down for a good time. Dean liked you. A lot. So before the whole cohabitation debacle, he kept it light and casual. He believed that someone like you deserved the real thing. When the opportunity arose, he thought that having you in the bunker might give him the time to explore something more, something real.

What he hadn’t planned on was that when you moved in and unpacked your small duffle, you were ready to get to work. He admired your drive and determination but missed the camaraderie he felt with you when you were on the road together. You spent the days in the bunker scouring news feeds for anything unnatural or doing research. Though it had only been a month, you had been out with the boys on three separate hunts. The hunts, it turned out, were hard and fast; nothing like the way it was before. Dean was accustomed to the fast pace but he had been looking forward to a bit of a break, and a change.

There are still perks, sure. You’re good at what do you, helpful, smart, and tough. Dean loves hearing your voice when he’s walking down the hall, sitting next to you during meals and research. Catching your scent when you pass by drives him wild and is enough to distract him for a few hours at least. And really, you do something to those flannel pyjamas…..it just wasn’t what he had hoped for. And he had let himself hope.

After the initial discussion with Sam to offer you a place to stay, Dean hasn’t broached the topic with his brother. Worrying that he’s misreading the situation, he decides to ask Sam,“Hey, have you noticed anything….”

“Dude,” Sam is walking towards him with a book open in his hands. His head is down, hair nearly brushing the pages as he studies something closely, “I think Y/N is on to something. She was researching that lead on Armenian lore. She said something about a dwarf…” when Sam looks up, he searches the room, asking, “Where is she?”

“Uh,” Dean turns around to look over the room despite knowing exactly where you are, “she’s taking a shower. What’s this about a dwarf?”

Sam purses his lips and shakes his head, “I don’t know, this text is pretty vague and the only reference I found was in a sketch but I can’t quite make out the description. Can you get on her laptop and see if you can pull up what she was researching?”

Deans sighs, “Yeah, sure.”

Sam follows Dean into the library where you left your laptop open. It’s since gone into sleep mode so Dean pulls out a chair with one hand while tapping on a key with the other.

“What am I looking for exactly?” he asks, taking a seat.

Sam thumps the book on the table. He wearily places one hand on his hip, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. It’s the surest sign that he’s been reading and squinting at small print most of the day and if he doesn’t already have a raging headache, he’s well on his way.

“Look,” Dean says, opening the internet browser, “just give me some key words and go…go rest. I’ve got this.”

“Yeah, alright. I made the connection, finally, that all of the women targeted were either pregnant or had recently given birth. When I mentioned it to Y/N, she said she had come across a reference in some earlier research on Armenian lore. She thought it might be some kind of dwarf.”

Dean waves Sam off when he catches his brother rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Alright, I got this. I’ll fill you in tomorrow if I find anything.”

Sam’s response is lost in a yawn as he shuffles away, stretching his arms over his head.

Sitting in front of your computer, Dean blows out another long sigh. He thought of asking if you wanted to nuke some popcorn and watch a show but with the crazy pace of the last several weeks, decides you probably want to rest. He reluctantly pushes away the image of you stretched out on the couch, your head in his lap, his hand on your hip, fingers….

Dean’s attention focuses on a title in your browser history, the fantasy forgotten.

**

“Dean,” your voice is high and tight, coming out close to a squeak, “give me my laptop.”

When Dean looks up at you, he barely manages to make eye contact before squeezing his eyes shut tight and letting out a howl of laughter. Tears stream down his face and he can’t quite straighten up because of the deep contractions of his stomach muscles.

His mouth moves. He tries to form words but every time he manages to push air out of his lungs, it comes out in hiccups and squeals. 

The burn in your face has drawn in such a rush of blood that your extremities have gone cold and tingly.

“Dean, please,” you whisper, biting down on your lower lip. You blow out a puff of air and look up at the ceiling, “come on.”

You crossed paths with Sam moments before as he headed to the washroom to shower. You hope that he’s in for a bit because instead of trying to search for a way out of this, your mind has gone completely, unhelpfully blank. Fucker.

Dean has propped himself up, one hand on his knee. When you make a grab for the laptop, he swings it up and away from you, extending his arm as high and far back as it will go. The small surge of adrenaline, the game of keeping your laptop away from you, seems to clear his head a little. His eyes are bright and his cheeks are pink from laughing so hard.

You place your hands on your hips and try to glower but your chest heaves with a giggle. You manage to hold it in but Dean knows damn well he’s got you.

He licks his lips and takes a deep breath. When he opens his mouth to speak, the corners quirk and he bites down to regain control before saying, “The tickler?”

You close your eyes.

Sure, you’re embarrassed. You could be quietly calculating the space beneath your bed to gauge whether or not you would fit but it’s the look of pure delight on Dean’s face that’s burned into the back of your eyelids. You pinch your lips between you hard and nod, eyes still closed.

Dean giggles, “Really?”

He takes a few breaths, sounding a bit creaky and uneven but manages to string together, “I mean, that was the best,” he laughs and tries again, “the best review…” and that’s it. Dean hands over the laptop, eyes shut tight, crinkling at the corners, and mouth open in a silent laugh that looks almost painful. When you relieve him of the computer, he places his hands on his knees and lets out a long, high pitched exhale.

You’ve already been caught and it’s clear he’s read the review so you don’t feel the need to retreat into your room. Instead, you stand and wait, enjoying watching Dean in the throes of absolute delight and hilarity.

It takes him another long “eeeeeeeeeeehehehhhehe”, a breathless “oh God”, an actual knee slap and finally, a hand clasped over his heart, before he takes one good breath.

“Are you quite finished yet?”

He holds up one finger, leans back, and gives a final, “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAH!” Both hands now over his heart.

“Ah, babe,” he says, his voice high, “I can’t even tell you how that made my year. No! Decade. That made my decade.” He reaches out, asking, “Can I read it again?”

The absence of noise catches your attention and you look towards the bathroom. Suddenly stern, you face Dean, waggling a finger in his face.

“You can come in and read it but not a word,” you hiss, “to Sam about this. Got it?”

Dean can’t actually form any coherent words so he just nods, following you closely as you back into your room.

He hasn’t actually been inside of your room. In all of the time you’ve been here, and with the strange change in your behaviour, he didn’t feel comfortable just walking in. The brief glances he did allow himself never produced enough details to form the image he was now seeing. The room looked exactly the same as it had before you moved in.

When Dean sobers quickly, you feel uncomfortable, unsure of what is going through his mind. He’s looking around your room, taking everything in and for a brief moment, you’re worried that he doesn’t like what he sees. And you’re right.

“Uh, Y/N, where is all your stuff?”

You turn, pointing to a dresser, “Well, most of my clothes are in there.” Gesturing at the nightstand, you continue, “and I have a few things in the drawer.”

“But,” Dean walks slowly around the room, frowning, “it looks like you don’t live here at all. I mean, you had a fully furnished place. Where is everything?”

You swallow hard against a lump in your throat and shrug. “Well, I put everything in storage, just taking what I thought I would need while looking for another….”

The words trail off when you catch his expression, “You can stay here as long as you like, you know. Bring more of you things? There wasn’t a time limit.”

“I know,” your voice feels like it doesn’t carry enough weight, “I just don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Dean frowns at you, his brows lifting when it all becomes clear, “Have you been, I mean, I think we’re just as guilty but, have you been behaving?” His face scrunches as he forces out the last word. Dean tries to imagine why you would have thought you needed to act so….strangely. He lets the rest of the thought come out, “What are you worried about?”

“Well,” you realize your shoulders are practically covering your ears but you can’t seem to relax as you say, “you and Sam are, you know, you’re legendary hunters. I want to earn my place.” You murmur under your breath, “I was trying to impress you.”

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” Dean bellows, “this whole time I’ve been busting my ass because I thought that maybe I read you wrong and you really were that uptight…”

You neck goes stiff, chin snapping up as you look at him, “Excuse me? Me? Uptight? If this place were any cleaner, I….fuck,” your shoulders sag as you admit, “I can’t think of anything…”

“Yeah, that’s cool, I see it.” Dean nods and plants his fists on his hips. The laptop clutched in your grip catches his attention and he cocks his head to the side saying, “so, uh, mind telling me about your review of the tickler?” The corner of his mouth quirks and he raises an eyebrow. “Do you actually have one or…” his mouth gapes and his eyes go wide as he makes the assumption, “are you a troll?”

You laugh. You laugh with relief and from the expression on Dean’s face. You laugh as you form a response and imagine Dean reading the review you left.

“No, no, I’m not a troll,” you giggle, “I am a responsible consumer though,” you’re interrupted by a hiccupping laugh- your own- and clamp a hand over your mouth not quite fast enough to cover a snort, “and I believe in…” you can’t finish the sentence.

Dean’s shoulders shake and a strangled sound catches in his throat.

You see Sam’s shadow in the hall, his footsteps inaudible over your giggles and Dean’s snickering. Dean notices too and pushes the door closed. It clicks shut and you are now alone in the room together. The room is a good size but it suddenly feels much, much smaller.

Beauty is not only in the sum of its parts and Dean Winchester is an excellent example of this. Altogether, he’s stunning to behold but it’s the devil in the details that really takes your breath away; the curve of his throat, jawline shadowed with stubble, the bow of his lips and arch of his brow. Divine geometry, biology, and chemistry; altogether perfection. You haven’t been able to look closely at his hands yet, knowing it will be your undoing so when he reaches for your laptop, you focus on his hairline and remind yourself to breathe, holding the laptop out for him. He takes it, his fingers brushing over your knuckles.

You want to chastise yourself. You’re a grown woman. A grown woman alone in a room with Dean Winchester. Welp, you think, there’s a worthy cause of death. You swallow the breath you were trying to take.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed- your bed- sliding one knee up and propping the computer in his lap. With what could only be described as absolute glee, he taps the space bar, bouncing a little while waiting for the screen to wake. 

He pats the bed, “Come on, MrsHemsworth78,” he teases, “sit right here and tell me more about the tickler and,” he looks around, “where you might have stashed it.” He raises an eyebrow and asks, “Does it have friends?”

You close your eyes and run your hands down your pyjama pants. You can’t really decide which is more embarrassing, Dean discovering your username from five years ago, reading your review of a sex toy, or the fact that you’re standing in front of him in unflattering sleep attire. You were a bit hasty in your packing and brought two pairs of PJs; snoopy flannels and a mismatched top and bottom combo so worn that they have their own ventilation. The see through patches alone provide quite a scandalous peep show.

You open your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on the floor. Any eye contact right now and there is no way you’ll be able to keep your composure. You lower yourself onto the other corner of the bed, hands on your knees and ankles crossed. Risking a tentative glance up, you see that Dean’s flashing all the teeth with a smile that wide. He slides the computer onto the bed, angling it so that you can both see the screen. The bed shakes as Dean cracks up again, scrolling down for the full text.

“Would you read it out loud for me?” He asks.

“Oh no,” you hold your hands up, feeling your own resolve start to give.

In a high pitched voice, Dean exclaims, “I have to read it again.” He wipes at his eyes, unable to focus through the tears. With a sniffle, he squeaks, “Ok. I’m ready,” his voice thrills when he manages to say, “s’born ready for this.”

Customer Review

Product: The underwhelming yet slightly stimulating tickler

Two stars

I admit that when I bought this I was pressed for time so I didn’t take a very close look. It was small and relatively inexpensive so I bought it. I couldn’t give two craps about the fucking colour. The package blurb boasted “deep vibrations” and “comfort grip”. Why in the sandy deserts of hell would you brag about “comfort grip”? I’m not climbing a fucking mountain here; I’m trying to get my rocks off as quickly and, usually, discreetly as possible. I’m gonna be “gripping” that micro rocket for five minutes max and then I’m tapping out. I got shit to do. Also with the packaging: what the fuck is with the white dude grinning like he just popped a bottle rocket into your grandma? Fucking creepy is what that is. Scrap that shit.

Down to performance. It vibrates. Barely. I guess tickler is a good name because being tickled is as close to the orgasm denying layer of hell as I want to get and there’s nothing sadder than taking the pleasure out of masturbation. I mean, seriously, how did you manage that? I’ve pushed grocery carts that have given me more reverbs that this fucking thing. Sure, once I propped one leg up on the dresser and stretched the other as far in the opposite direction as it would possibly go- did I mentioned being discreet was on my list of priorities? I hope there were no cameras or creepers because it probably looked like I was giving myself a colonoscopy- I felt….something. Most of the stimulation came purely from the foreplay I had with myself assuming that this worthless piece of garbage was going to get me off. Hey! Sounds a hell of a lot like my ex-boyfriend. Maybe rename it the Paul and I’ll email you a pic so you can scrap the creepy granny popper you’ve got hocking this thing.

I’m a strong believer in not pointing out a problem unless you have a solution. May I suggest a power upgrade? No need to go nuclear though that would definitely tingle-although a label reading “warning: may cause cancer” would kill my lady boner almost as fast as your gerontophiliac poster boy.

It might make a good cat toy?

Fond wishes and lengthy farewells.

-MrsHemsworth78

Dean wraps his arms over his stomach and doubles over. He leans over so far that he faceplants into the bed, muffling his laughter. The bed bounces and you chuckle, shaking your head.

Managing to keep your voice steady, you ask, “How do you know I wrote that?”

Dean sits up, red faced and pulling in air through clenched teeth; he chuckles, breathes, and then laughs again before saying, “Your email. I saw your login page. Same name.” He reaches up to brush the tears out of his eyes.

“Christ with a side of fried beans,” you mutter, thinking that you really need to be more careful but then again, you don’t have much to hide from Sam and Dean.

Dean swallows and sniffles. He rolls his shoulders back and sits up straight, asking, “But seriously, do you still have it?”

You laugh, “I think so. But it’s not here.” You shake your head, “It wasn’t worth packing. Trust me.”

Dean nods, the muscles in his face bunching as he tries to hold it together, “Yeah, yeah. I got that.”

He lets out a long breath and smiles at you. “I was too, you know.” There’s no quaver in his voice. Dean has turned his body so that he’s facing you. When you frown at him, not quite understanding the change in topic, he clarifies, “Trying to impress you. I mean, I do like it tidy but, things around here are usually a bit more fun.” He pauses then, grinning and spreading his arms out wide, “Who the hell am I kidding; things are rarely fun around here. That’s why we were so excited for you to move in.”

“Temporarily,” you correct him, although the word comes out haltingly.

Dean leans forward, “For as long as you want. Not need. Want.”

You didn’t notice his hand sliding across the bed towards you until his fingers wrap around your wrist. When you meet his eyes, your throat goes dry and you kind of feel a nervous pee coming on.

“So, Mrs. Hemsworth,” Dean tilts his head and asks, “is it the big blond one or the Miley Cyrus one?”

It takes a few rapid blinks and a quick jog of the old brain box for you to clue in. “Oh,” you swallow hard, “the, uh, the blond one.”

Dean smiles, “Have a thing for blondes, do you?”

There’s a knock on the door and you jump up, yanking your arm free of his grasp. The door opens and Sam peaks his head in. He looks at you and then Dean.

“So, uh, are we good?” He asks, his hair mussed from a quick towel dry.

“Yes!” Dean says eagerly, “I have solved the mystery. Y/N will go back to the shenanigans we all know and love and we can relax.”

Sam rolls his eyes to the ceiling, “It’s about time!” One eye twitches and his lip curls a little. His face relaxes into an almost sleepy smile, “It’s been hard reining it in.”

“Oh come on!” Dean yells, waving his brother away, “close the damn door before it gets in.”

Sam laughs, swinging the door open and shut to create a small current of air.

“Oh no!”

You dive onto the bed, nearly knocking the laptop over, and bury your face in your pillows. With a laugh, Sam closes the door, the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps signalling his escape.

“That’s a mood killer,” Dean mutters.

Holding a pillow up to your nose, you sit up and turn to face him.

You take a breath and come up just long enough ask, “What?”

Dean considers his answer carefully before asking, “You’re really going to want to give the room some time to air out so might I suggest we go to, uh, my room and,” he coughs, “watch a show?”


	2. Chapter 2

In. His. Room.

You once pegged a guy in a confessional and yet here you are blushing at the thought of being in Dean Winchester’s room.

Alone.

With him.

“Uh, yeah,” you say, scooting off the bed, still gripping the pillow to your chest. You’re about to set it down when you realize you’re not wearing a bra. Shit. Has Dean noticed? Do you ask him to wait while you put one on?

Dean gets up and swings his arms back and a forth a few times, nodding, “Great.”

He turns on his heel, yanks open the door, and waits, holding it open for you. You reach out to flick off the lamp on the bedside table, blinking in the near dark. The light from the hall is bright enough that you won’t be stumbling out.

“You bringing that?” he points at the pillow as you shuffle forward.

“I am,” you say, clutching it tighter.

You slide your feet along the floor, ducking your head as you pass by him and unintentionally catch his scent. Dean smells good, like the type of smell that makes your thoughts jumble and evokes warm fuzzies in your body…particularly in your bits. Warm fuzzies, from concentrate. A good source of vitamin e, keepin’ things moist and youthful.

Dean watches you walk ahead of him, still leaning on the knob of your bedroom door. He tilts his head to the side and bites down on his lower lip, considering the rhythmic curve of your backside. He snaps to when you stop to look over your shoulder, frowning as you wonder why he hasn’t moved.

“Are you coming?” You ask, cringing as Dean pats down the front of his jeans. He bends at the waist to look down at the floor, muttering, “I, uh, thought I heard a…ah…I lost my keys.”

“What do you…”

You don’t have time to finish your sentence. Sam comes barreling down the hall- GODDAMN IT BUT HE’S NOT WEARING A SHIRT. You can’t look away. You think briefly that he must go tanning and the thought of Sam wedging his enormous body into a tanning bed to shake and bake himself is almost absurd, like a jumbo hot dog in a regular sized bun. His pants ride low on his hips, revealing almost a full meter of taught, glorious, well-muscled torso. Weeks of nothing and suddenly you have a golden ticket to Dean’s bedroom and Sam is walking around half naked. Hallelujah, glory be, and all that other shit. You consider briefly how much of a tug if would take to bring Sam’s pants down a few more blessed inches.

“GUYS,” Sam scuttles to a stop, bare feet squeaking on the floor. “I just picked something up, there’s been another attack.”

Well fuck.

**

You’re fully dressed- bra included- in the backseat of the Impala staring out the window as the miles roll by. In the front, Dean is slumped against the driver’s side door, eyes on the road as Sam rattles off details. Sam is also, regrettably, fully dressed.

The younger Winchester pushes his hair back as he stares down at his phone. He reads, “This woman says that she heard something unusual through the baby monitor. When she went to check, she saw something reach into the crib. She says it was too dark to get a good look but that it was small and it looked like it had a beak.”

“A beak?” Dean turns to look at Sam, grimacing. “I thought you said it was dwarves.”

Sam huffs impatiently, lips thinning as he explains, “That’s ‘dwarfish’, as in small in stature.”

“You said dwarf,” Dean snaps. Since movie night was interrupted, he’s been surly, snapping orders at you and Sam, and walking like he’s hitched up to a stunt harness, driving his heels down as if fighting gravity, shoulders hunched up around his ears. Getting him to drop trou for you now would most likely require divine intervention. You sigh, settling for the image of half-naked Sam while waiting for inspiration to strike. Rough times. Send money.

“What are you grinning about back there?” Dean growls, making you jump. You make eye contact with him through the rearview, surprised that he was watching you.

“Uh, what?” You rub your palms on your jeans, laughing weakly before thinking to ask, “Sam, uh, what happened chest?” your eyes widen, “Next! NEXT!”

Sam looks from Dean to you and back to his brother, nose crinkling, “Uh, well, she said that when she ran in and turned on the light, it bolted. She doesn’t know where it went.”

You think to ask, “Did she call the police?”

Sam smiles, “Yes, she did. I caught it on the scanner.”

“Oh,” you look down at your worn jeans and scuffed runners, “you suiting up, then?”

“Yeah well, we need to figure out our angle of approach on this one. One woman was found dead, liver, lungs and heart removed. Another woman, also dead, was torn open but nothing was missing.”

“You think someone interrupted snack time?” Dean asks, clearly disgusted.

“Looks like it,” Sam raises his eyebrows. “It wasn’t until a pregnant woman was attacked that I looked into it and found out that all of the women who were targeted were either pregnant or had recently given birth.”

“Uh, fuck,” Dean groans, leaning his left elbow on the door and rubbing his eyes. He sighs, straightens, and looks back out at the road. “Alright, so we have two dead vics. The pregnant woman who was attacked, she survived?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking back at you for confirmation, “she suffered some bad cuts but managed to get away. You read her statement, right Y/N?”

You nod, “She reported hearing a noise right before the attack. Apparently it happened so fast that she didn’t get a good look. A group of kids heard the woman screaming and ran to check it out. They must have scared it off because none of them saw anything. She had some pretty deep cuts along her abdomen that the doctor’s report said came most likely from a knife. Thankfully, they were shallow and she just needed some stitches.”

“So, this….” Dean struggles to find the words, “this dwarfish bird thing attacks people with knives?”

“Not exactly,” Sam says, looking back down at his phone, “I think Y/N hit it spot on with her research. Did you not read it?”

Sam looks up, watching his brother now. He rests his arm on the back of the seat and half turns to look at you. “Isn’t that what you two were talking about earlier?”

Only your eyes move. The rest of your body is utterly immobile and even if you could move, you’re not sure what you would do. You can’t run, can’t excuse yourself and scuttle off to the bathroom for some deep breathing exercises, maybe some squats.

“Uh,” Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, “we got sidetracked,” he coughs but it sounds strangely like a chuckle, “yeah. Didn’t, uh, we didn’t get to that.” His voice goes up a few octaves as he says, “Tell us about the…thing, Y/N.”

Charmingly, the muscles in your body that decide to give are those holding your mouth shut. Your throat is tight and dry. You manage to croak, “It’s a demon, um,” you hold up a finger. Putting an abnormal amount of effort and concentration into the task, you manage to grab your canteen and unscrew the cap. Sam watches you the entire time, the crease in his brow deepening. You get the bottle up to your lips and take a swallow, choking a little when Dean catches your gaze in the rear view. The asshole looks way too happy.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you clear your throat and say, “It’s called an Al, or Ul; a demon of childbirth. It’s said to resemble an old woman with a beak for a nose and copper claws…”

“That explains the wounds,” Dean says.

You nod, “Like Sam said, it attacks pregnant women or women who have given birth in the past few months. It kills the mother and unborn babies and the stories say it has been known to abduct newborns, replacing them with imps.”

When you meet Dean’s gaze again, all light has gone out of his eyes.

“Well, that’s a fucking mood killer.” He says, lowering his voice to mutter, “Rewind (something inaudible) tickler (something something) movie (something) bed springs.”

Sam gives you one last look, his cheek dimpling as though he’s biting something back, and faces forward.

“So,” Dean asks, “how do we kill this thing?”

“Iron.” You and Sam say at the same time.

“Easy enough.” Dean steps down on the gas, Baby’s engine roaring.

**

You bolt upright.

It feels like your eyelids are dragging sand over your eyeballs as they open; the movement painful and much too slow. The driver’s side door opens with a squeal and you blink, peering out the window to see Sam- suited up and looking good despite the early hour- speaking with a police constable. Dean ducks down and gets in the car, Baby creaking under his weight. He unbuttons his jacket and thumps his head back on the seat.

The air inside the car is stuffy and humid and smells of warm bodies and leather and oil. Dean rolls down his window and you do the same, noting that the air outside is almost as heavy, not doing much to freshen things up.

“Anything?” you ask, raking a hand through your hair and yawning.

Dean takes in a deep breath, “Well, it does sound like this Al demon but we couldn’t find much.”

He turns to look back at you. The corner of his mouth twitches but before he has a chance to say anything more, his attention is diverted and he shifts to watch Sam heading towards the car. Sam is unbuttoning his jacket, fiddling with the last button before opening the door and getting in. He slams the door shut and heaves a long sigh, thumping his head back against the headrest.

“They’ll give anyone a badge these days,” he complains, scrunching his face and rubbing his eyes.

“You get anything else?” Dean asks, tilting his head to one side to stretch out a kink.

“The family is fine, thankfully just a big freaked,” Sam yawns and hunches over, reaching forward; something in his back or shoulder pops and he lets out a sigh before continuing. “We have to wait until morning to talk with the neighbours.” He looks out the window as the cop car pulls away.

The engine roars to life and Dean pulls away from the curb with measured restraint given the early hour.

“What do we do now?” you ask, trying to hide another yawn. You lean towards the window, tilting your face up to the slight breeze coming in as Dean speeds up.

“There isn’t much we can do tonight,” Sam continues, asking, “You find anything that might suggest where this thing would come from?”

“I remember reading something about water but,” you shake your head, the rest of what you wanted to say lost in a yawn.

“Yeah, let’s call it a night and find somewhere to crash,” Dean says, looking over as Sam thumbs through listings for hotels.

There’s a thump under the car. The car swerves a little, Dean clearly distracted by the noise.

“Uh, what the fuck?” Sam looks out the back window but the road, faintly lit by the Impala’s tail lights, in clear.

Dean is also looking, eyes widening when there’s another thump. He pulls over quickly, the car fish tailing and skidding when he hits the gravel shoulder. The car has barely had time to settle into park when Dean tosses his body weight against the door and jumps out. There’s a skittering sound coming from behind your seat. It makes your neck and stomach muscles tense and ache.

“Sam?” you whisper, “did you hear that?”

Dean is hunched over, the beam of a flashlight directed under the car. When he straightens, the light hits you in the eyes and you squeeze your eyes shut against the blinding glare, swearing.

There’s another thump, this time coming from the trunk, followed by the sound of metal dragging against metal that is drowned out when Dean gets back in the car, slamming the door shut behind him.

“I didn’t see…” he stops, meeting Sam’s wide eyes. The skittering sound ends in a thump right behind your ankles. You swallow hard, hands trembling as you reach down for the knife you keep in your boot, not sure a gun would be wise in this situation.

There’s a gargle and a hiss as you snatch the handle of the knife and yank your arm up, your hand stinging and warm. Your knuckles are wet and as you turn your wrist, you see a long slash across your knuckles weeping blood.

“IT’S IN THE FUCKING CAR!”

You’re not sure who yells it, it could be you, but all you can think of is getting the fuck out of dodge. Or, rather, a Chev.

**

In a moment like this, a moment of panic, terror, the floodgates of adrenaline open wide, you would like to think that past experiences have taught you to be cool, clear headed. You’ve often been surprised by your ability to think strategically and do what needs to be done under pressure. There will come a time when you will laugh about this, maybe sooner than you believe possible, but it’s gonna sting for awhile because this will go down in history as the hunt in which you completely, totally, shit the bed.

There is some consolation because the Winchesters- experienced, lauded and feared- don’t fare much better.

Instead of snapping into action mode, your brain decides instead to focus acutely on Sam. Maybe it’s the fatigue, maybe the slurry of hormones addling the network of synapses, but whatever the reason, you zero in on Sam Winchester.

Perhaps exploring the principles of continuum mechanics, his body is occupying the space in the front passenger seat of the Impala in ways you never thought imaginable. Hands braced against the dashboard, arms rigid, left leg up so that his knee is almost up by his shoulder, Sam looks….uncomfortable. His mouth is open wide and you think that this expression must be accompanied by sound but you don’t hear it, the space in between your ears filled instead with a hum that is as soothing as it is deafening. You see something between Sam’s hands and realize that the large brown mass of molded leather is, in fact, a boot and must belong to his right foot. How it got up there is beyond your mental capacity at this time.

The current model of meat popsicle inhabited by modern human comes with various upgraded features but at the very core of it is a deeply embedded survival instinct. Because it is buried so deeply, it sometimes malfunctions but in times of extreme stress, there is a standard protocol. What is known as the ‘fight or flight’ response might seem simple but in reality, the body is going through an important series of checks and balances, sending a surge of blood and energy to fuel this response, powering certain muscles by pulling stores from the rest. The body shuts off power to the ‘unnecessary’ functions in order to boost what it sees as crucial. One of the departments experiencing these cuts? The digestive system. Who needs to hold onto pee and a bowel full of shit when it’s time to skedaddle or put your dukes up?

It comes as no surprise then that the thing that snaps you out of your cynosure is the noxious smell of gas. Not the oil based kind.

“Oh, come on!” Dean shouts, and you hear it, amplified like starting the car and forgetting the radio is on full blast.

Brain fog lifting, you come to and find yourself squatting on the seat, brandishing your knife from side to side as though trying to hypnotize instead of maximizing the full goring potential of the weapon. Your senses are overloaded for a moment, the sights and sounds of smells of complete chaos but, thank Chuck, everything comes back online just in time to see something fleshy and pointy pop up, squealing and slashing, between the Winchesters in the front seat.

The brothers shout at the same time, the cry continuing on as they bat at the thing. Sam looks like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible while Dean throws his weight against the door but he’s not quick enough with the handle and he gets stuck in an unsynchronized cycle of heaving himself against the door and snapping the handle.

The trunk.

It takes half a beat to realize why you’re thinking of it but your brain and body decide to continue on without you. The door opens and you tumble out onto the asphalted shoulder of the road.

“Shut the door,” Sam yells, his command followed by a sharp squeal and scuttling sound. “We can’t let it get away.”

Sand and bits of rock and glass digging into your knees, you flip over and kick the door shut, scrambling to get to your feet and around the back of the car. The sounds of the Winchesters and the beast yelling and fighting is muffled, the Impala rocking from side to side.

You hear the rhythmic sound of a window being rolled down, a soft clink of metal, and a thud as the metal hits the ground. Dean shouts, “Keys!”, before swearing and rolling the window back up.

“Fuck,” you shout, running to the keys and back to the trunk, catching a brief glimpse of Dean’s face sandwiched against the window and SAm’s boot- you really hope it’s Sam’s- jammed into the steering wheel. He must hit the horn because there’s a long blast that makes you jump and drop the keys. Hands shaking, you pick them up and fumble them a few times before finally getting one into the slot. You turn and it jams.

Sweet fucking Christmas cake.

Struggling to pull it out, you grab another and poke at the hole before it finally slides in.

“For Christ’s sake,” Dean yells, “hurry up.”

The latch clicks and the trunk pops open. Leaving the keys in, you push it open, slamming your head into the lid in your haste. Blinking away stars, you duck down, pulling up the false bottom and scanning the mess with rising panic. Dean usually keeps things neat but, for some reason, he didn’t tidy up after the last hunt and the stash gives new meaning to complete disarray.

“Y/N!!!” Sam hollers.

You reach out and start sifting through the pile, picking up random weapons and tossing them aside. You see the iron dagger a moment after it leaves your hand and you swear, picking it back up and hurrying to the front of the Impala.

You’re not sure what body parts belong to which brother, catching only flashes of fabric, fists and limbs as they wrestle with the beast in the front seat. You know it’s still in there because mixed in with the tangle you catch glimpses of flesh and claws and a beak. There’s a streak of bright red blood across the windshield. You rap on the window and shout Dean’s name before yanking open the door. Dean almost topples out but you can see it now, beak open wide as it struggles to take a gasping breath, Sam’s massive mitts around the thing’s scrawny throat. Instead of passing the weapon off, you dive in, Dean making an ‘oof’ sound as you slam into him. Dagger in hand, you bring it down, both sickened and relieved as it sinks into flesh.

“GAH!” Sam shouts, losing his hold on the beast.

You look down and feel your head spin as the last of the adrenaline dump is neutralized by the clear cold wash of shock. 

Across the street a family, packed sardine like in their mini van, look on in horror.


	3. Chapter 3

It sounds like a HIIT class inside the Impala; the deep exhalations, the grunts, and one final gasping wheeze from the limp, fleshy thing between Sam’s legs.

With a cringe that you hope looks apologetic, you yank the dagger up and out of the seat and the meat of Sam’s thigh and give the flaccid grey lump a poke. It flops, causing you to jump and Sam to let out a decidedly high pitched squeak. It flops and then...nothing. 

“Tell me it’s dead,” Dean says. His voice is low as though he’s afraid to wake it, his wide eyed gaze laser beaming to the space between Sam’s legs. When he speaks, you can feel the reverberations of his voice in his chest. Because, you know, you’re still sprawled across his lap and the weight on the back of your thighs is most assuredly his left hand, holding you in place so you don’t fall out of the car.

“Is everything alright here?”

Your head snaps up as Dean squeezes your thigh reflexively- it’s much closer to your ass than you had previously noted- and he releases you. You start a slow slide off his lap and see a man in a polo shirt standing behind you. A polo shirt. 

Getting your footing, you unfold quickly from a half crouch and stand. Sam is swallowing hard and trying his damnedest to brush the dead Al off his lap before Polo Shirt catches a glimpse of it. Dean reaches toward you and quickly palms the dagger. 

You turn, tilt your head to the side and say, “Just fine, thanks.”

“What’s going on Dan, should I call the police? What’s on that woman’s face Dan? Is that blood…” Parked across the street is a green mini van. A woman is leaning over the driver’s seat, yelling out the window.

Polo Shirt- or rather, Dan- holds up a hand and shouts back, “I’m dealing with it Susan.”

“Everything is fine, Dan,” you say, grinning and waving at Susan. She doesn’t return the greeting but someone in the back of the van does causing Susan to whip around in her seat and start gesticulating with a rigid index finger.

“You have blood on your face and I saw you with a knife in your hand,” Dan crosses his arms over his chest. He leans to the side to look around you at Dean and Sam.

You don’t chance a look back. When you take a step forward, Dan flinches and scuttles backwards, his hands up in front of him. Mirroring his body language, you slowly put your hands up where he can see them. Mentally, you slip through a list of possible excuses. You can’t see yourself so you have no idea where the blood is and how much there might be. A little could be explained away but judging by the look on Polo Shirt Dan’s face, it’s more than a little. 

Dan presses his mouth into a thin hard line and takes a hesitant step forward, fists balling at his sides. 

“My wife says she saw an ostrich in the car. Is this...is this some sort of satanic…”

You stop listening, especially when he pronounces it SAY-tanic. If the sweat beading in the sparse hair peppering his upper lip and the tension in his neck are any indication, Polo Shirt Dan is about to bend you over and give you the bible thumping of a lifetime.

The car creaks and you hear Dean’s boots hit the pavement. Dan takes a half step back again, craning his neck. The car rocks, the suspension singing the song of its people. Dean places himself in what he believes to be a strategic position, blocking whatever it is Sam is doing from Polo Shirt Dan’s view. The sound is joined by a steady click-click click-click as Susan power walks her way across the road. She looks over her shoulder, shouting, “You two keeps your assets in your seats or there’s no internet for a week,” the pitch of her voice raises several octaves as she ads, “do you hear me?”

She must be satisfied with the answer because she turns her attention to you and then, with a noticeable shift in her stride and rearranging of her voluminous hair, to Dean. The woman looks as though she’s stirring cake batter with her hips. She sidles up to Dan and settles a half step in front of him. Susan takes her hand out of her hair, trailing her fingers down the side of her face, down her neck, and coming to rest on her collar bone. Dan looks at his wife and then at Dean, his hairline coming down to meet his eyebrows as he frowns. 

Dan leans towards his wife, his whisper fit for the stage, he says, “They’re both covered in blood. You were right, there’s something disreputable going on here.”

You’ve been called many, many things but disreputable is not one of them.

“This?” Dean says, “nah,” he takes a step closer to Susan who rolls her shoulders back, her bosom jutting forward like it’s caught in a tractor beam. Judging by Dean’s smile, he knows it too and is diverting power from all other battle stations to juice up the charm. If you can’t kill ‘em, charm the pants off ‘em, clearly.  
You don’t notice that Dean has already started to speak as you say, “The thing is, Dan, Susan, we’re aspiring filmmakers...” 

What you do notice, is the look of confusion quickly followed by outrage on Dan’s face and that Dean is holding his hand out to them. Susan’s eyes are on Dean, tongue tracing a slow path over her bottom lip. She doesn’t look as though she heard you.

Dean’s squeezes his eyes shut, nostrils flaring with a slow intake of breath. That’s his annoyed face. 

Shit. 

He pockets his fake I.D.

Double shit.

“That’s it,” Dan bellows, his small round face reddening, the colour matching the skin of his neck. “The Lord suffers no fools and I am no fool.” His legs are rigid, not quite bending at the knee as he takes several steps in your direction, “I am making a citizen's arrest. Susan, call the po-lice!”

Dean’s shoulders sag and he shoots you some serious side eye. What the fuck had you been thinking? Fuck.

Small, clammy fingers on your wrist snap you out of your moment of self-beration. Frowning, you look at the offending digits and then up into Polo Shirt Dan’s face, his skin and eyes alight with self righteous glory.

Susan’s eyes widen, her hand fluttering over her décolletage and, ignoring the small, angry man, you turn to see what has her rapt attention. 

Sam.

He seems to be missing a layer of clothes and his dress shirt is unbuttoned- no, the buttons are missing and the seam is torn- revealing a good five inches of firm, tanned, manly chest. He gives a quick jerk of his head, sweeping the hair out of his eyes with the motion, and smoothes his hands down the front of his long torso. Ignoring the pull on your arm, you look back at Susan who is transfixed and you snicker.

“You find this funny?” Dan’s voice is close, the smell of ranch dressing heavy on his breath. “We’ll see when I…”

His no doubt noble proclamation is cut short as you straighten and release his grip with a quick flick of your wrist. His features twist in rage but before he has a chance to say or do anything further, an arm blocks his way and Dean warns, “You touch her again…”

Dan squeaks in protest, the veins in his neck protruding, his eyes bulging out with the pressure.

“Susan. SUSAN! Are the po-lice on their way?” He makes a grab now for Dean’s arm, sputtering, “You are under arrest…”

Dean gives Polo Shirt a small shove and asks, “For what?”

It dawns on you that Dan looks like an angry squirrel, chittering and bouncing around. Meanwhile, Sam walks around the car and sidles up so close to Susan that the holy ghost would have a tough time finding space between them.

“For whatever unholy goings on,” Dan jabs a finger towards the Impala, “we have witnessed. We came just in time and you,” his beady eyes fix on you, “agent of Satan…”

“Her?” Dean laughs, “no, but that guy though,” he points at Sam who, for some reason, has his jacket tied around his waist, “he could tell you a thing or two about the devil.”

The diversion works. Dan turns to look at Sam. Susan has her hand on his arm and is looking up into his face, the thrall obvious. 

When Dan squeaks out “SUSAN!” several octaves higher than you thought possible, Dean grabs your elbow and pushes you back towards the car. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he mutters.

The blast of a car horn makes you jump. Across the road, a teenager has settled into the driver’s seat and is leaning on the horn, yelling out the window, “Come on already, it’s the middle of the night and you promised we would be there by now.”

Susan’s eyelids flutter and if you were closer to her and it wasn’t so dark, you’re sure you would see her pupils narrow and some kind of unwelcome lucidity seep back in. The blissful look on her face, no doubt brought on by slow motion images of Sam sauntering her way, all long legs and exposed chest, hair-chest and the locks on his head- fluttering in the wind, is replaced by a snap of irritability. Real world, real time. Forgetting why she clickity-clacked her way across the street, Susan does a crisp about turn and marches back the way she came, rigid index finger jabbing at the air once again as she berates the teenager.

Polo Shirt Dan’s sputter loses momentum and conviction as he is now faced with two large blood covered men with grim expressions. You would like to think that you add some depth and colour to the intimidating picture pissed off Winchesters paint but it’s more likely that you look like an unsuspecting passerby, wide eyed and lost. Ugh.

You have to give Dan credit for some sack, empty or not, as he pulls a phone out of his pocket. He squints down at the screen and pokes at it with one finger. Sam sighs and slaps the phone out of Dan’s hand. It clatters to the ground and Dan looks up at him, mouth agape.

“SUSAN!” he hollers, “I have been assaulted!”

Sam places a polished boot down on the phone, the plastic crunching, screen giving with a snap. Dan pokes a finger into Sam’s chest, shouting, “You will not get away with this, you…”

Sam’s expression has darkened. Sam Winchester, always well aware of the importance of patience and respect when dealing with the population at large, citizens unaware of his role as defender of the Dans and Susans of the world, has completely run out of fucks to give and it is written all over his face. His jaw is tense, eyes narrowed, teeth firmly clenched together. He leans into Dan’s finger, the pale digit bending under the pressure. Dan yanks his hand away, holds it to his chest and with a sputter, a moment of hesitation only giving him time enough to see Dean’s mirrored expression, he turns and hurries his way across the street. 

Dan is barely in the driver’s seat when the van pulls away, kicking up sand and gravel and fishtailing before gaining some traction on the pavement. In the back, a face is pressed against the window, lit up by the glow of a mobile device.

“You think they actually called the cops?” you ask.

“Better to get out of here before we find out,” Dean says, holding his door open, “I'm too tired to even begin trying to explain this.” 

He makes a wide gesture, including himself, you and Sam. It’s then that you notice the cuts, gashes, and gouges on Sam’s face, neck, and arms. He sighs and works at the knot in his jacket. As he unravels the sleeves, bundling the jacket in his hand and making his way around the front of the Impala to the passenger’s side, you see the small blood stained tears marring the white shirt and, when he turns, a flash of bloody thigh. That last one is on you and the truth of it makes you cringe.

Dean follows Sam to the passenger’s side of the Impala. The brothers stand together staring down at the small creature on the floor of the car. You join them, cringing at the sight of long, blood stained copper claws. 

“That is one fucking ugly….thing,” Dean murmurs, adding, “goddamn demons.”

Sam nods, wincing as he shifts his weight. He looks over his shoulder at the surrounding landscape. “Let’s find a place to burn the body and,” he yawns wide, eyes watering, “find somewhere to get some sleep.”

**  
The room is incredible.

It cost more than a month’s rent on your last place- granted it’s also larger than your last place- but considering you stabbed Sam, it’s a small price to pay. He did put up a fight, albeit short and lacking any real conviction, but in the end he accepted the room as compensation. A firm handshake, a promise to never bring it up, and now you’re in the room on your knees in front of him, eyes mere inches away from the bulge in his underwear.

At your urging, Sam sits down on the edge of the king sized bed. He takes a swig from a bottle of whiskey before setting it down on the night stand. You place your hands on his knees and edge a little closer.

“Can we just get this over with?” he asks, yawning wide.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, squinting and pinching the edges of the wound in his thigh together. The skin around the deep gash is red from the iodine you used to clean it and the antiseptic smell is strong, probably a good thing considering your face is all but buried in his crotch. It’s nothing short of a miracle you didn’t stab him in the penis or aerate his scrotum. You don’t look up at him, don’t give him a warning before pushing the needle through; this is far from Sam’s first rodeo and you're not the nastiest bull he’s ever faced.

He sucks air in through his teeth but doesn’t move. You hear the television blip on and music from the hotel’s greeting station comes on. There’s a soft beep, out of sync with the melody from the tv, and the door opens. Dean walks in, the smell of roasted meat and grease accompanying him. 

“Dude,” he murmurs, hesitating at the sight of you on your knees in front of his brother, “this is just all kinds of unpleasant.”

“You’re welcome to take my place,” you say, pushing Sam’s knees wider. You look up at him, “I’m gonna need you to turn over, I can’t quite get the right angle.” 

“Alright,” Sam glances down at your progress, “how do you want me?”

Oh the thoughts that would be going through your mind if you weren’t so damned tired. The witty, furtively sexy comments you could make. The opportunity is completely lost on you and you’re aware enough to realize it but don’t have the energy to fully care; it’s more of an “I’ll kick myself in the morning” scenario.

“On your side, I think,” you say, careful not to pull on the needle still threaded through Sam’s thigh. He lies back, muscles moving under his shirt and thighs flexing. The bulge in his underwear shifts and, eyes going to the needle in your hand, you shift your thoughts to toast, perfectly browned and warm, just right for melting butter. Yes. Toast. Not penises or erections or sex. Toast. There is nothing arousing about toast. You are not aroused. There is no reason whatsoever to be aroused. Bread transformed from it’s natural state to be the perfect companion of butter and a wonderful, comforting, breakfast food.

The take out bags crinkle as Dean tears first one open and then another, rooting through them in search of his meal. Sam stretches his left leg out long, bending the right and moving his knee up, trying to find a comfortable position that allows you the best access. The position leaves the underside of his bulge in plain view and you bite back a groan of irritation. You sit back, take a deep breath, and focus on the task at hand, a task that has nothing whatsoever to do with Sam’s nether regions.

It doesn’t take much longer and soon you’re dabbing away at a neat row of stitches. You put your needle and spool of thread back into your kit and cap the iodine bottle. Standing slowly, the muscles in your back protest making you grunt. Your knees are stiff and your shoulders ache. Sam doesn’t move. Stretched out on his side, head pillowed on his arm, he’s snoring softly. You tug at the extra blanket on the end of the bed and shake it out, spreading it out over him. Dean is fast asleep on the couch. You’re not sure how he manages it in a seated position but his arms are loose at his sides, sandwich wrapper in one hand, and his chin on his chest. You pad over with a pillow, sure he’ll wake. You take the wrapper from him and toss it into the wastebasket. His eyelashes flutter, eyes opening but not quite all the way. 

“S’gone on?” he slurs. 

“Nothing,” you say softly, holding out the pillow, “everything is fine. You get some sleep.” You jab the pillow in his face a few times until he makes a lazy grab for it. He lets you push him down onto the couch, bunching the pillow under his head. Dean pulls his legs up and reaches for you, fingers gentle around your wrist.

“Lay down,” he says, wriggling his hips back to make room.

“In a minute,” you say, pulling away, “I just have something I need to do.”

**  
The first thing Dean feels is the blissful pull of sleep urging him not to open his eyes, not to quick start wakefulness with any questions or thoughts but to give in, sink back into delicious oblivion. His hip and bladder, in cahoots on this one, do not agree. Dean groans, turning onto his back to ease the deep ache in his hip. He’s getting too old for this shit, he thinks, blinking his eyes open. He groans and shuts his eyes again but the pressure in his bladder is past the point of uncomfortable and no shifting or repositioning will help. 

With a grunt, he sits up. He’s still clothed but his boots are...somewhere. Dean leverages himself up and off the couch and has a quick look around as he makes his way haltingly to the bathroom, muscles stiff. Sam is sitting up in the bed- a bed all three of you could easily have….

“Wait,” Dean says, “where’s Y/N?” 

Where you out for coffee? In the bathroom? Dean can’t see any of your stuff in the room and unless you had, in fact, shared the bed with Sam, he can’t imagine where you might have slept. When Sam doesn’t react, Dean walks over, noticing the ear buds in his brother’s ears and hearing the faint murmur of music.

“Sam!” He leans over and pulls one of the buds out, “Sam, where’s Y/N?”

“Uh,” Sam looks around the room, not actually thinking that Dean had overlooked you, just as an automatic reaction. He looks up at his brother and shrugs, “I thought you knew. I passed out pretty early but…”

“And where the hell did you think she slept?” Dean asks, the painful pressure in his bladder, achy hip, and worry making him trip over irritable and land face first into pissed off. 

“I didn’t. Look, man, I just got up myself. She’s a grown woman. I’m sure she’s fine. Have you tried her cell?”

Dean pinches his lips together. His brother knows damn well he hasn’t had a chance to try calling you yet but he can’t deal with him right now. Dean turns and quick steps his way to the bathroom. 

While relieving himself, he thinks back to the night before, trying to remember if you had mentioned where you might go. He remembers standing with you in that very bathroom, commenting on the extravagance of such a space.

“Goddamn,” your voice had echoed as you exclaimed, “who knew shitters could be so perty?”

Dean’s laugh had bounced off the tiled walls. The ceilings were high and there was a seat in the shower. A seat! At first, he wasn’t convinced of the quotidien usefulness of a seat in a shower but as he has ruminated on it….the possibilities were boundless. He had caught your reflection in the mirror that spanned an entire wall and factoring you into the possibilities had been exciting to say the least.

But.

Everyone had wounds to clean and stab wounds to stitch, not to mention hunger and exhaustion to tend to at some point, so he hadn’t had a chance to explore any of those titillating possibilities any further. The thick sandwiches he managed to scrounge up had settled heavily in his stomach, sapping any reserves of energy he might have had to further explore said possibilities, the exploration of the tantalizingly foreign topography of your body topping off that list. While you had your head buried in Sam’s nether regions, Dean had all but fallen asleep.

And now he’s awake, rested, and energized by the thought of, once again, possibilities, but you are nowhere to be seen and as Dean ends his third call going straight to your voicemail, worry extinguishes his excitement leaving behind a few lonely sputtering coals and a lung fill of steam as evidence of his aspirations.

Dean has never been good at “wait and see” or “give it time” so when Sam suggest as much, Dean storms out of the room with the excuse of getting coffee and scrounging up some food. He’s fiddling with his keys, standing beside Baby when he looks down into the back seat of the car. He blinks, unsure of what it is he’s looking at exactly. Dean tilts his head to the side and chuckles, his relief making him almost giddy. 

**  
For the second time in a twelve hour period, you jerk awake in the backseat of the Impala, bleary eyed and aching. Dean is bent over the driver’s seat, frowning at you.

“We had a room big enough to fit a hoarder’s dream collection of cars and you chose to sleep in here?” 

The strong, glorious smell of coffee makes your head spin, your brain calling all your senses to attention at the promise of caffeine. You rub a hand over your face, feeling greasy and gritty. Your mouth tastes like reheated garbage and a glimpse at your watch- your phone died hours ago- makes you groan; after the little detour you took last night, you’ve only had about two hours of sleep.

“Where the hell were you last night?” Dean slides into his seat, careful not to upset the drinks, and turns, handing a coffee back. He notices the box on the floor and looks up back up at you, the question clear on his face.

You sit up and grab the cup from him, “I thought I would move some stuff in.”


End file.
